


Whatever You Want It To Be

by addicted2hugh



Category: Sherlock (TV), Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms
Genre: Bottom Sherlock, But Mostly Smut, Canon Divergence - The Sign of Three, Cheating, Dirty Talk, Drunk Sex Turning Into Something More, First Time, Fluff and Smut, Friends to Lovers, Hurt/Comfort, M/M, Post-Reichenbach, Seductive Sherlock, Sherlock Holmes and John Watson Reunion, Sherlock Takes His Chance, Sherlock is a Tease, Thanks Madonna, Third Person John Watson POV, Top John
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-05-25
Updated: 2018-05-25
Packaged: 2019-05-08 06:35:14
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 8,449
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14688507
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/addicted2hugh/pseuds/addicted2hugh
Summary: A silly, alcohol-fuelled conversation about pillow talk in all its forms turns into something more significant, and John finds out a few surprising things about himself and his best friend. Sherlock takes what he can get.In other words, a lot of porn and a little plot. Or: How I wish John's stag night had ended.(Inspired by Martin Freeman's face in the sticky note scene, which is very obviously in love with Sherlock, regardless of what John Watson thinks.)





	Whatever You Want It To Be

**Author's Note:**

> This is my first foray into 3rd-person POV in a longer piece of writing. Expect an abundance of the same two names, personal pronouns, and awkward substitutes for them XD. It's hard!
> 
> I hope you'll enjoy reading!  
> Comments are <3!

John doesn’t remember how this conversation started.

He’s quite drunk, and Sherlock is drunk as well, and it’s so different, seeing him with his guard down like this – maybe that’s what makes him talk about these things with him. Or maybe it’s the Madonna marathon they’ve been watching on YouTube because Sherlock didn’t know who she is, bless him, and now he does, but he’s also slightly taken aback by the more explicit lyrics and stage outfits. It’s endearing, actually.

John grins and waves his glass in front of Sherlock’s face, leaning forwards in his chair.

“No _wonder_ you’re alarmed,” he teases him. “I bet your pillow talk sounds so… so  _refined_ , so--- a bit old-fashioned maybe, and _posh_ and … maybe some nice, clinical expressions thrown into it for variety…”

Sherlock squints at him, seemingly trying to focus, but giving up right away. John is glad that he’s taken the sticky note off his forehead. He’s close to a hysterical fit of laughter as it is. Spending this night with his friend has made him happier than anything has done in a long time, and he’s been feeling the relief over their healing relationship bubbling inside himself for hours now. It’s only a question of time until it comes to the surface. Who knows. He might hug Sherlock or do something equally out of bounds, and then what?

Sherlock probably doesn’t do hugs.

“You think so?” Sherlock asks after staring into space for a while.

He’s adorably soft and slow when under the influence, John thinks. He nods, his vision trying hard to keep up with the movements of his head.

“Yes… No slipping into the vernacular for the great Sherlock Holmes…”

Sherlock seems to ponder this for a moment.

“Give me… an example,” he then demands, his voice a little slurry around the edges.

John shrugs. He doesn’t mind. He’s not a prude, is he?

“You’d say things like…  _Let me take you to my bed_  and… maybe  _I’m yearning for your touch_ … or  _I want to worship your body_ … and you’d tell her---”

“Him.”

“Yeah, fine, you’d tell him to---”

He stops in mid-sentence, realising what Sherlock’s just said. Sherlock fixes him with a strange, piercing look, and there go  _soft_  and  _slow_ , being replaced by…  _what?_

“To let me feel his stiff member in my mouth?” he suggests, his tone so innocent, but his eyes so dark, so deep. “To allow me to spill my release inside of him?”

John shifts in his chair, feeling himself harden in his pants. All of a sudden, it feels like there’s not enough air in the room anymore.  _Fuck._

“Yes,” he rasps. “Something like that.”

Sherlock smiles and takes another sip of whisky. John watches his lips touch the rim of the glass and imagines them sliding against his own mouth, so plush and silky and maybe slightly cool, that perfect Cupid’s bow slipping between his lips in a slow, sensuous kiss.

“What’s your version of that? In the…  _vernacular?_ ” Sherlock then asks, his voice husky and rough, and by now there’s no use denying it anymore – this is Sherlock in seduction mode, no doubt about that.

He clears his throat, unsure of what exactly is being expected of him.

If this is a game, a dare, he’ll be damned if he lets Sherlock win just like that.

“Let me suck your cock; you’re so  _hard_ …” he drawls before he can stop himself. “I want to fuck you and come inside your arse.”

This is insane. He doesn’t even know what he’s saying there, since he’s never had sex with a man. Has Sherlock?

_Oh God._

The other man is hard now, too; John can see it clearly – there’s an impressive erection tenting his too-tight trousers, and his too-tight shirt has been distracting him all night anyway. Why does he always wear his shirts so fucking  _tight?_  John's not attracted to men's bodies, but  _this_  particular body makes him stare despite himself.

“M-hm…” Sherlock hums. “I must admit that this sounds like something I’d find challenging to take into my mouth.” He pauses and licks his lips, apparently lost in thought for a moment. “The words, that is. Not the...  _cock_ ,” he then adds.

The last word and the stress Sherlock puts on it send a jolt of arousal right between John’s legs. He can’t breathe. What’s going on? Why isn’t he stopping this; why isn’t he already running from the flat and home to the woman he’s going to marry in a few days? Why is he more turned on than he can remember, more than ever,  _ever_  before?

John’s heart wants to jump out of his chest and into the other man’s mouth, to make him shut up, to let him consume it, consume  _him_ , to allow him to take possession of him and do to him whatever the hell he wants.

He should go; he should laugh it off.  

“Don’t make rash assumptions… It might be more of a challenge than you think,” he replies instead, lowly,  _suggestively_  – what the  _fuck_  is wrong with him?

Sherlock’s staring at him now, his lids heavy, his body slumped back into his chair, and he looks so inebriated that John jumps a little when he suddenly puts down his glass and moves to slide to the floor in a surprisingly graceful motion, coming to rest on his knees right in front of him.

“Well, now I’m curious,” Sherlock whispers, looking up at him out of his beautiful slanted eyes, and John’s world narrows down to this chair he’s sitting in and this man who’s kneeling at his feet, a man he thought he knew so well, and yet he never expected this to happen – whatever this is. He puts his glass down as well.

Sherlock is not touching him in any way, but just staring at him with a look of absolute, undisguised desire on his face, and John knows that it’s up to him now. If he wants this to continue, he’ll have to make the next move.

Mary’s face flickers before his inner eye, frowning at him, but the vision is pushed aside by an image of Sherlock’s mouth on his penis, his tongue pink and glistening, licking his tip.

Sherlock had him at “cock”, and he’s almost sure that he knows it, too.

He returns his friend’s gaze and slowly opens his legs to make room, and the right corner of Sherlock’s mouth twitches upwards in a small, barely noticeable smirk. He shuffles closer and puts his hands on John’s thighs, his fingers digging into the muscles with gentle force.

John’s breathing accelerates.

He can’t look at those eyes any longer; it’s much too intense, so he looks down and at Sherlock’s hands instead, which are now making their way up his legs ever so slowly, his thumbs pressing small circles into his flesh and teasing him until John can’t control himself anymore and allows his hips to jerk up and forwards into the touch.

Sherlock utters something that sounds like a purr, deep inside his chest, and slides his palms up and over John’s hipbones until he can hook his fingers into the waistband of John’s trousers, and although the skin-on-skin contact is minimal, John can’t help but moan in response.  

“Fuck,” he hisses. “ _Fuck._ ”

“Yes,” is all Sherlock replies, his baritone like melted chocolate.

He leans down and puts his mouth right over John’s crotch, exhaling hot air over the bulge straining against his lips, and then he moans as well, and the sound vibrates all around John’s cock and makes him so hard that he’s afraid of embarrassing himself by coming right into his pants.

He gasps and grips the armrests of his chair to steady himself, his heart pounding, his chest heaving with shuddering breaths.

“Please,” he hears himself beg. “ _Sherlock._ ”

“John...” Sherlock breathes in answer. “ _Yes._ ”

John closes his eyes as Sherlock unbuttons his trousers and pulls his boxers down until he can free his penis from the confinement of his clothes, and he feels his fingers tremble when he wraps them around his length to give him a first, careful stroke. Sherlock is being much more gentle than John expected him to be, and he lets his legs fall open completely now, giving himself over to the sensation.

It feels so good. So.  _Good._  It feels better than anything has ever felt before, which John knows should worry him for so many reasons, but it doesn’t – he’s just  _feeling_ now, wishing it never had to end again.

“You’re beautiful..." Sherlock sighs and runs the pad of his thumb along the vein pulsing on the underside of John’s cock with perfect pressure, and he doesn’t sound the same as before – there’s fascination in his voice now, and reverence, and something else that John can’t put a name to, but that makes him shiver deep inside.

“ _Please_ ,” he repeats.

He can’t talk, can’t  _think_ , Sherlock’s scent and his soft skin and his heated breath clouding his brain and rendering him unable to do anything but want more, more,  _more_.

Sherlock inhales shakily, a sound so sweet that John’s heart clenches in his chest, and then there’s warmth all around him, slick and tight and so,  _so_  incredibly wonderful, and he hears himself utter a half-groan, half-sob that reverberates in the quiet room. Sherlock’s hands are on his abdomen now, and he reaches for them to entwine the other man’s fingers with his own.

Sherlock sucks harder at that and moans around him, his fingers squeezing John’s in a light, but insistent grasp.

“Sherlock,” John whispers and opens his lids to look down at his friend, and he finds that Sherlock’s eyes are on fire, his gaze unflinching as he nods his head up and down slowly, taking in a little more of John’s cock with every downwards movement, and then John feels his tip hit the back of Sherlock’s throat.

“ _Ngh_ , fuck,  _God!_ ” he exclaims and bucks up and into Sherlock’s mouth, and Sherlock pulls back and uses one hand to hold down his hips, a small gagging sound escaping him.

“ _Sorry!_ ” John gasps and puts his now free hand on Sherlock’s head to run his fingers through his tousled curls. “Sorry, oh God…”

Sherlock lets him slide from his mouth and gives him a crooked smile. He’s panting ever so slightly.

“It’s alright…” he says lowly and pushes his head into John’s touch like a huge, cuddly cat. "I love how you let go."

His long, pale neck is extremely sexy, John muses as Sherlock moves his head against his palm, and because he doesn’t know whether he’ll ever get the chance again, he lightly pulls at the strands of dark hair coiling around his fingers to make him bare it a bit more, and Sherlock moans and allows it, his Adam’s apple bobbing when he tilts back his head and swallows audibly.

“You’re beautiful, too,” John tells him, and by now he knows that he’ll say anything that’s on his mind tonight, no matter what tomorrow will bring. “You’re  _so_  beautiful.”

Sherlock looks at him, his multi-coloured irises sparkling with an invitation to  _take_  – John can read it clearly, and so he does.

Pushing gently, he guides Sherlock’s mouth back to where he needs it now, and Sherlock follows willingly, opening his lips when John’s cock comes within reach, and John presses down,  _down_ , and it’s so good.

“Suck it,  _yes_ …” he breathes, his hand easing Sherlock into the rhythm he likes. “ _Mmhhh_ , yeah, like  _that_ …”

Sherlock  _does_  suck, apparently putting his whole self into it, and John wonders how he can muster up such phenomenal precision and still be so passionate and sensual about it. He must have practised a lot.

Strangely enough, John is _jealous_.

He forgets that quite quickly, though, because Sherlock’s tongue is undulating against his frenulum now and he’s started to make rumbling sounds in the back of his throat, each of which is taking on a life of its own and wrapping itself around John’s flesh to mercilessly draw him towards his release. Not long, now.

His leg muscles tensing up, John holds on to Sherlock’s hand, which has slid up to his chest, and allows his head to fall against the backrest of his chair. He tightens his grip on the other man’s hair, pushing and pulling faster,  _faster_ , and then---

“Yes, yes,  _yes_ …” he mutters breathlessly, and Sherlock hums and grips the base of his penis, probably to prevent him from choking him when it happens. “God---  _Sherlock_ , I’m---”

It’s meant to be a warning, but he’s too late, and Sherlock doesn’t show the slightest inclination to pull away, so he supposes it’s okay.   

He shudders and comes, moaning loudly, his whole body convulsing in his chair, his back arching and his mouth gasping for air, and Sherlock sucks and swallows and mirrors his moans with glorious, wanton groans of his own, and even while still floating in the middle of his orgasm the sounds alone make John want to do it all over again.

He can’t remember the last time he came like this – his cock is jerking violently into the wet heat of Sherlock’s mouth, he’s thrumming with pleasure all over, feeling light-headed, and the tips of his fingers and toes are tingling.

He wants it to last forever.

Sherlock slows down eventually, and his instinct is perfect – the waves of ecstasy running through John’s body are ebbing away, and he feels himself getting too sensitive to be touched. A long sigh makes its way out of his throat as Sherlock cleans him up with a few last soft strokes of his tongue and then lets him go. He goes completely slack, melting into his chair, his hand still in Sherlock’s hair, and the other man exhales a shaky breath and leans his cheek against his thigh.

“Oh God,” John pants. “Oh  _God_.” He cups the side of Sherlock’s face with his palm, stroking his cheekbone with his thumb. “That was---  _incredible_...”

A drop of wetness hits his hand then, and he looks down to find that there are tears trickling out from under his friend's tightly shut lids.

“Hey. Hey, Sherlock.”

He tucks himself back into his boxers, leaving his trousers open because he’s still hard, and then carefully lowers himself down to the floor, wrapping his arms around the man sitting in front of him in the process.

“Hey, come on… What’s wrong, hm? Come here…”

He kisses Sherlock’s temple, then his closed eyes. Then his quivering lips.

Sherlock sucks in a sharp, surprised gasp at that, his eyes snapping open again, and John tilts his head to nip at his bottom lip.

“John---” he starts, but John silences him with another soft press of his lips against his mouth.

“Kiss me,” he whispers against him, and Sherlock shivers.

“You don’t have to---” he mumbles, sounding shy, but John puts his fingers into his hair again and runs his nails along his scalp.

“I  _want_  to,” he insists. “I  _want_  you.”

It’s true. It’s also exhilarating, and confusing, and the worst timing  _ever_.

He wants him.

“Kiss me,” he repeats, and finally Sherlock complies.

They meet in a slow, careful slide of mouth against mouth, their lips opening to breathe in each other’s air, their tongues sneaking out tentatively to touch, to explore. John can taste himself in Sherlock’s mouth, and nothing has ever been so intimate, so  _important_.

“Hmmm…” he hums and deepens the kiss, happy when Sherlock follows along and digs his fingers into his shoulders as if he never wanted to let go again.

They kiss for long minutes, the breath they share growing hot and heavy, and then John reaches down and between Sherlock’s legs to rub against his hardness, and Sherlock moans and breaks the kiss to stare at him out of ample eyes.

John returns his gaze.

“I want to,” he says again. “Please let me.”

Sherlock hesitates, but then nods slowly.

“Yes,” is all he replies.

He disentangles himself from John’s embrace and gets up from the floor. Then he holds out his hand. John looks up at him and takes it, allowing himself to be pulled to his feet. His legs are still shaking.

Without another word, Sherlock turns and leads him through the living room, then into the hall and towards his bedroom. He follows, his heart beating wildly.

What is he doing?

He’s getting married soon.

Why doesn’t he care more?

He knows he can’t blame it on being drunk – he  _is_ , but that is not the reason why all of this is happening now. He doesn’t know if Sherlock is aware of that, too.

When Sherlock pulls him into his room and closes the door behind them, John tells his brain to stop and shut up. Sherlock helps this along by gently pushing him against the wall and re-initiating the kiss that started in the living-room, but now it’s hotter, more urgent, and John desperately hopes he’ll be able to get hard again, because he wants to do it properly this time. He wants to be naked with this man, he wants to kiss him all over, wants to taste every part of him, wants to make him lose himself completely.

He wants to see what his face looks like when he comes.

“Off,” Sherlock breathes and lifts the hem of John’s jumper to pull it over his head, and they have to stop devouring each other’s mouths for a second, but then Sherlock returns to nip, kiss and suck, using his lips and tongue to take John’s breath away even more vigorously than before.

 _God_ , he’s an amazing kisser, and John wonders why he's never noticed or even  _assumed_  that there's this wild, sexual side to him. He’d always considered him an attractive man, definitely more than averagely beautiful ( _sexy?_ ), but before tonight, he never looked at him like  _this_.

His hands buried in Sherlock's hair again (he  _loves_  this hair so much), he's busy licking the last traces of whisky off his lips when his friend smiles against his mouth and nips the tip of his tongue with his front teeth.

"Let me take you to my bed," he mumbles into the kiss. "I'm yearning for your touch."

John can hear the amusement in his voice, but also the arousal and want, and he chuckles in response. When he himself said it, it sounded more than awkward, but somehow it doesn't now. It sounds  _right_.

“I’ll let you do pretty much anything to me if you ask like that,” he jokes softly. “Where--- I mean--- I never knew you did… all this.”

Sherlock presses his hips into him and his knees buckle. A quiet groan escapes him and he holds on to the other man’s upper arms, feeling his muscles flex under the silky fabric of his clothes.

“I haven’t done all this in almost twenty years,” Sherlock mutters, and John gapes at him, but he manages to get himself together again quite quickly. He doesn’t want him to feel like he’s being pitied.

“Now I feel special,” he answers, pleased with the gentle grin that this earns him.

Sherlock pulls away to run his hands across John's arms and chest, opening buttons as he does so. "That’s because you are," he whispers, his eyes shining in the half-light created by the street lamp’s soft glow filtering in through the curtains. His voice sends shivers down John’s spine.

Sherlock’s fingers are warm on John's skin when he pushes his shirt open and down his arms until it falls to the floor with a rustling sound. John's trousers and boxers, still sitting low on his hips, follow suit, and he tries to step out of them as gracefully as possible while simultaneously getting rid of his socks, and then he's naked in front of Sherlock, who is still immaculately dressed in his expensive suit.

Sherlock looks at him, takes him in, but he doesn’t feel self-conscious about it. Sherlock has seen his scar before, but still wants to undress him, so he thinks he’s alright with him being not unblemished by his past. Nevertheless, he shudders when Sherlock reaches out and caresses the place where the bullet entered him, surprised by the tenderness of the moment.

“You’re the most beautiful thing I’ve ever seen,” Sherlock mutters, very seriously. “You’re  _perfect_.”

John doesn’t know what to reply to that; he’s so overwhelmed, so he just steps back into the other man's personal space and pulls his head towards himself for another kiss.

Sherlock gives back in kind, licking into John's mouth to play with his tongue, and at the same time shrugs off his jacket and opens his cuffs.

"Let me," John pants and blindly begins to unbutton Sherlock’s shirt, starting at his collar and working his way down until he has to pull it out of his trousers to reach the last button, and Sherlock isn’t wearing anything underneath, and then their fronts are touching, and John moans and slides his arms to Sherlock’s back to feel him closer,  _closer_  still.

Sherlock’s chest is smooth and warm against his, and his back is muscular, but the skin there is littered with ridges and bumps, and John’s kiss stutters to a halt as he lets his palms roam over this part of his friend’s body.

Sherlock grips his shoulders and leans his forehead against John’s to catch his breath.

“Don’t be alarmed,” he says lowly. “There are parts of me that have changed since you last saw them.”

John swallows.

“Show me,” he answers, even though he’s afraid of what he’s going to see. “Please.”

Sherlock hesitates for the briefest of moments, but then lets go of him and turns around, allowing his shirt to slide off his body and to the floor.

John gasps. Sherlock’s back is covered in scars – some gnarly and still red, some long and thin, like he’s been caned or whipped… or both.

“Wh---” he starts, but Sherlock interrupts him before he can ask.

“I promise I’ll tell you one day,  _soon_ ,” he says quickly. “I promise, John. Please trust me. I don’t want the past to overshadow---  _this_ , what we’re doing here and now. Please.”

He turns back to face John, a pleading look in his eyes, and John nods despite himself, trying to overcome the despair and fury boiling in his stomach. He takes Sherlock’s face into his hands, runs his thumbs along his brows, his cheekbones, memorising the beauty of it all.

“I’ll kill whoever did that to you,” he hears himself whisper, and he knows he will, if Sherlock tells him who it was. He’ll find them and take revenge.

Sherlock’s features twist into an expression he’s never seen before, pained and touched and so, so vulnerable, and it makes his heart ache to watch it. His hate dissolves and love fills his chest, absolute and unconditional love for the man standing before him, and he can only guess what he had to go through in the time he was away, but he knows he did it for him.

“I’m sorry, Sherlock,” he tells him, tears prickling behind his lids. “I didn’t know. I never meant to--- I’m _so_ sorry.”

In Sherlock’s eyes, he can see that he knows what he’s referring to. He hopes he’ll forgive him. He’ll never forgive himself.

“They’re dead,” is all Sherlock says, his voice shaky. “Please just kiss me again, John.”

John does, and soon Sherlock’s trousers, pants, shoes and socks have joined his own clothes on the floor, and then Sherlock pushes him towards the bed with gentle determination, and they sink down on the mattress together, their limbs entwining, fitting together perfectly.

“Oh, you feel good,” John pants against Sherlock’s cheek and slides his thigh over Sherlock’s legs, higher,  _higher_ , and then he feels Sherlock’s cock against his skin, hot and silky and very, very hard, and he can’t believe that he likes this so much. He’s not gay, not bi, has  _never_  been interested in men, not even curious. What is happening here? What has Sherlock done to him?    

“ _Mh!_ ” Sherlock moans when John rubs his leg up and down the underside of his erection, his slender hips jerking up and into the touch, and John grins.

“I have no idea what I’m doing here,” he mumbles into Sherlock’s ear and licks his earlobe. “I apologise in advance.”

Sherlock shivers.

“You’re doing fine,” he answers and chuckles breathlessly. “Just do whatever you want…”

John hums lowly and presses his own cock against his friend’s hip to grind against him, and Sherlock grips his right buttock and groans, baring his neck as he throws back his head in abandon.

“ _Fuck_ …” John breathes. “You’re gorgeous… Oh God,  _Sherlock_ , I want you so much…”

He can’t control himself, can’t understand this desire tugging at his insides, but he knows  _what_  he wants – everything.

With a fervour that surprises both himself and Sherlock, who gasps and does some interesting kind of horizontal jump, he moves down the other man’s body, tongue-kissing every inch of skin that comes his way (his collarbones, his dusky pink nipples, the lines of his ribs, the dip of his navel, his sharp hipbones), and when he reaches Sherlock’s cock, he just takes its base into his hand and puts his mouth around the rest.

“Oh God, oh  _God_ …” he hears Sherlock chant, his voice breaking. “ _John!_ ”

He sucks lightly and completely without system, building up saliva to make the hard flesh wet and slick, and the musky and slightly bitter taste of another man on his tongue is strange, but exciting.

Out of the corners of his eyes, he sees Sherlock twist the bedsheet in his hands, his knuckles white, and it makes him proud to be the one to make this otherwise calm and collected person lose control like this.

He tries to imitate what he himself likes when it comes to blow jobs and swirls his tongue around the head of Sherlock’s cock, pushes it into the slit and against the sensitive spot right underneath, and when a streak of hot liquid spills against his palate, he savours it. It’s proof of whatever it is that has grown between them; it’s something he knows Sherlock doesn’t share with a lot of people. No matter what will happen afterwards – he knows he’ll remember this night for as long as he lives.

Sherlock is panting now, and John looks up to see him gazing down at him, his pupils blown, his cheeks flushed a dark shade of pink. He lets him slip out from between his lips, but keeps his fingers wrapped around him to stroke up and down slowly, revelling in the pulsing of the other man’s blood against his palm.

“Tell me what you want,” he tells him lowly. “Tell me what you need. I’ll give you anything, Sherlock…  _Anything_.”

He has watched the occasional threesome online (if the woman was hot, he made do with two blokes getting it on in between), so he’s got a rough idea of what  _anything_  might imply, but he thinks he’s okay with that. It’s Sherlock, and there's really nothing he wouldn't do to make this good for him.

Sherlock shakes his head as if to clear it.

“I--- I don’t know, John…”

John smiles and gives him a tight downwards stroke before cupping his bollocks in his hand and kneading them carefully. Sherlock’s mouth opens in a silent moan, and John bites down on his bottom lip, very aware of the effect this has on his staring bedmate.

“I think you  _do_ ,” he says, giving his voice an air of seductive darkness. “Tell me…”

Sherlock closes his lids for a second, his chest rising and falling rapidly, and then he turns his upper body to open his bedside drawer and take out a small tube of lubricant. John’s heart skips a beat. Sherlock faces him again and holds out his hand, offering the tube to him, and he takes it, willing himself to stay calm.

“Where?” he asks, his voice rough, and puts his hand around Sherlock’s cock again. “Here?” He strokes him once and then moves his fingers down until he reaches his perineum and the pink, puckered opening a little further down. “Or down here?” he adds, whispering, his middle finger brushing the tender skin ever so lightly.

Sherlock looks as if he wanted to laugh and cry at the same time.

“Yes,” he rasps back. “Down there.”

John nods.

“Okay…”

He’s done this before – with women. It can’t be  _that_ different, can it?

He pours some of the transparent gel on his fingers and rubs them against each other to slick them up thoroughly, all the while watching the wondrous, amazed look on Sherlock’s face. He’s propped up on his elbows, following John’s movements with his eyes, and it makes John feel nervous and powerful all at once.

When he’s satisfied that his right hand is as prepared as it’s going to get, he uses his left to caress Sherlock’s abdomen.

“Hand me the other pillow, please,” he tells him, and when Sherlock does, he smiles at him and nudges his thigh. “Up,” he orders softly, and Sherlock lifts his hips to let him arrange the pillow under his lower body.

“Lean back if you want… Get comfortable…” John says and spreads Sherlock’s legs a little more, careful to give him the opportunity to rest his heels against the bed to ground himself.

Sherlock lies back down and looks at the ceiling, then takes a deep breath and closes his eyes. John knows that the time it took to get ready for this next step has taken the urgent edge off their arousal, at least a little bit, and he wants to get Sherlock back in the mood – he wants him to let go again.

“Relax,” he breathes, and then he just touches him.

His heart beating in his throat, he circles his entrance with the pad of his middle finger, massaging the muscle to make it loosen up and pressing down harder and harder ever so slowly, and after a minute of teasing he feels the tight ring give way to allow his fingertip to slip inside.

Sherlock, who’s been completely silent up to now, sobs lowly and his thighs start to shake. John is mesmerised by it.

Yes, he’s done it before, but oh, who is he kidding? Of course it’s different. This is his best friend, the person his world has been revolving around ever since they met for the first time, and the only man he’s ever wanted to touch like this.

“ _Mmhhh_ , yes, let me in,” he whispers and thrusts shallowly, using the way Sherlock’s body is rhythmically convulsing around him to push further and further inside without having to use too much pressure himself. “You’re lovely,  _so_  beautiful like this, yes… Pull me in, baby, just like that… God, you feel so hot inside, so  _good_ …”

He doesn’t care if it’s too much – he needs to voice his thoughts and feelings, and he thinks Sherlock needs to hear them, so he just gives his mouth free rein and stops thinking about what might better be left unsaid.

He remembers his medical training and crooks his finger to find the small gland protruding somewhere along the wall of Sherlock’s tight, tight channel, and the searching movements alone seem to feel really good, judging from the way Sherlock writhes and moans and presses his cheek into his pillow, but then John finds what he is looking for and puts pressure on the spot, and Sherlock arches his back and comes undone in front of him.

It’s more beautiful than John could ever have imagined.

“ _Nnghhh!_ ” Sherlock presses out through clenched teeth and bucks against John’s finger, his hands shooting up to grip the headboard of his bed. “ _Oh_  God! Ah!”

His erection, flushed red and still moist with John’s saliva, twitches against his abdomen, and John moans in response, feeling his own cock filling again in sympathy.

“You’re so sexy, Sherlock, oh God…” he pants, brushing the spot again and again, and Sherlock whines and follows his movements with small thrusts of his hips. “Fuck, yes, show me how you like it, come on…”

“More, more,  _please_ …” Sherlock suddenly begs throatily, his eyes still shut tightly, his fingers clawing at the wood of his bedframe. “Another one, please,  _John_ …”

John doesn’t hesitate to fulfil his wish and pulls out completely to use his index finger on the next thrust as well. There’s no resistance whatsoever as he pushes the two fingers into Sherlock, all the way up to his knuckles, and because he’s feeling high and experimental, he puts his thumb against Sherlock’s perineum to rub small, rhythmic circles, and then he finds his prostate again and Sherlock almost screams.

“Yes, God! Oh GOD!” he groans, his body shaking all over. “Don’t stop, right  _there_ , don’t stop!”

John doesn’t stop. He keeps it up for some minutes, watching Sherlock shatter to pieces with each and every thrust, and by now he’s almost painfully erect himself, which is surprising, since he only came so spectacularly less than an hour ago.

“Sherlock, you’re  _amazing_ , you’re so fucking good like this,  _God_ , you make me so  _hard_ ,” he rambles and wonders if he should just give himself release with his free hand before he faints from sheer arousal, but at his last words Sherlock opens his eyes and lets go of the bed to grab his wrist and stop his thrusts.

“Drawer,” he gasps. “I’ll--- get---”

Sherlock being incoherent is something John’s not used to, so he waits, slightly dumbfounded, for whatever it is that his friend intends to do.

Sherlock repeats his twist-and-turn motion from before and retrieves a small, crackling object from his drawer, and it takes John a while to realise what it is.

It’s a condom.

“If you want,” Sherlock pants. “Here.”

John reaches out a shaking hand and takes the condom. He  _does_  want, desperately. But taking what Sherlock is offering now seems like too much, too big, too  _meaningful_ , because even though he has no idea  _what_  this is, he knows that it is far from a mindless drunken one-night stand. There will be consequences. What if Sherlock opens up now and he has to hurt him later on? He thought he could give him  _anything_ , just like that – it turns out that he can’t. Not just like that, anyway.

"I don't care," Sherlock says lowly, obviously reading his mind. "I don't care about later, John."

Oh, he looks so lovely. John doesn't want to stop; he wants to go all the way with him. 

But he's scared for their friendship.

"I care about  _you_ ," John replies, and hopes Sherlock will understand - he's rubbish at big words.

Sherlock nods.

"I know. Me too."

He wants to kiss him after that,  _has_  to, so he abandons his place between his legs and lies down next to him to kiss up his neck until he reaches his mouth. He needs to explain why he’s hesitating to jeopardise what they have right now, what they’ve only got back a few weeks ago.

"I missed you like crazy," he says against Sherlock’s lips. "It  _killed_  me to live without you; I died every fucking day… I was _so_ alone…  _God_ , I--- I don’t know what I’d do if I ever lost you again.”

It’s okay to say it now; it had to be said.

Sherlock kisses him then, deeply, and puts his arms around him to stroke his back.

“I’m so sorry, John… I’m sorry I had to hurt you like that… I missed you too,  _so_  much…” he mumbles into the kiss. “You’ll never lose me again, no matter what. I promise.”

John wonders if what they’re doing is making up for two years’ worth of lost time, or atonement on Sherlock’s part, or him getting cold feet because deep down inside he is very aware of the fact that his haphazard proposal only six months into his and Mary’s relationship was born out of despair and grief, and who knows what would have happened if Sherlock had come back  _one_  day earlier…

When he decided to ask Mary to marry him, he wanted a new life, a life with a wife and a regular job and a small house, and without drama or surprises or traumatic events. But he’d never stopped mourning his old life, even though he’d tried hard to forget all about it.

Sherlock’s hand on his cheek pulls him out of his musings.

“Stop thinking…” he tells him and rolls onto his side to put his left leg over John’s hip, offering himself to him again. “Make love to me.”

His choice of words could mean anything, John thinks. He could just be avoiding the “vernacular”. He could be---

His train of thought stops abruptly when Sherlock takes his right hand and puts it back between his legs.

“We don’t have to do it like that if you can’t,” he whispers, his eyes fixed on John’s. “But I loved your fingers inside of me.  _Please_.”

John could never deny him anything, not when he begs like this, and he can feel that he’s still slick down there, still relaxed and open for him, so he just continues where he’s left off, teasing him with a few light brushes over his perineum before sliding two fingers back inside.

“Yes,” Sherlock sighs. “Mmhhh,  _yes_ …”

Lying with him like his, John can feel every tremor running through the other man’s body as he thrusts in and out, and it’s so much better than what they did before. He has to concentrate hard to find Sherlock’s prostate from this angle, but when he finally does, Sherlock rewards him with the most beautiful moan, shuddering in his arms and hiding his face in the crook of his neck.

“O-oh,  _Johnnn_ …” he whines, his hot breath tickling John, giving him goose bumps. “ _Yesss_ …”

It’s so intense, much more so than before, now that they’re connected from head to toe, and John wants more. He presses his lips against Sherlock’s sweaty temple and inhales the scent of his hair, and on the next thrust he uses his thumb to give himself leverage, pressing the pads of his fingers against the bundle of nerves that gives the man in his arms so much pleasure.

Sherlock utters something that can only be described as a grunt of delight, and John thinks it’s the most erotic sound he’s ever heard. His friend’s whole body is vibrating, and when he scissors his fingers to stretch him further, Sherlock’s hips jerk forwards and their erections slip-slide against each other, wet with lube and precome. It feels divine.

“ _Nnghhh_ ,” John growls into Sherlock’s ear. “ _God_ … Do that again, come on…”

Sherlock sounds as if he's hyperventilating, but he does it again, and again. John feels lightheaded with lust; his loins are burning up from the inside.

“I’m---  _clean_ ,” Sherlock suddenly gasps in between two moans. “Hospital… tested---  _John---_ ”

John almost laughs at his friend’s presence of mind amidst the most incredible sex he’s had in a long time, but he’s also thankful for this piece of information. He knows he’s clean as well. He wants to do it so badly, and despite his earlier doubts, he suddenly can’t see any reason why he shouldn’t.

“Yes,  _yes_ …”

He pulls out of Sherlock and rolls him onto his back, and Sherlock slings his legs around his body and reaches down to help him find a good angle to enter him. It’s much easier than John thought. Sherlock’s body welcomes him into tight, wet heat, engulfing his cock in the most delicious way, and he moans and kisses him again, their hearts beating against each other through flesh and bone.

“Yes, John…  _oh_ …”

Sherlock’s hands are on his arse now, pulling him down and into himself, and even when he can’t go any further because he’s all the way inside, his fingers are still digging into his buttocks, kneading his flesh, demanding more.

“Nnghhh, _deeper_ …” Sherlock hisses, sounding out of his mind with desire. “Oh  _God_ , you’re so---  _big_ …”

John huffs and bites the shell of his ear, tasting salt and  _Sherlock_ , and it’s intoxicating. He feels something wild inside of him stir and come to life, and although he’s fond of the idea that this is them  _making love_ , as Sherlock put it, he also wants to  _fuck_  him, hard, until he can’t see straight anymore.

“I can’t go any deeper…” he rumbles. “But give me some room and I’ll give you the best… fucking… orgasm… of your life…” He accentuates his words by grinding his hips in slow circles, his bollocks sliding against Sherlock’s arse. Sherlock moans and laughs and loosens his grip on him.

“ _Love_  your pillow talk…   _oh_ \---” he says lowly, breaking off when John pulls back and thrusts in again with a smooth, controlled movement. “Oh,  _God_.”

His arms come up to wrap themselves around John’s neck and shoulders and he bares his throat, his eyes closed in abandon. John licks into his ear, enjoying the full-body shudder that provokes, and repeats the thrust, a little more forcefully this time. Sherlock moans again and jerks in his arms, his cock twitching against John’s abdomen.

“Yeah, that’s it,” John breathes. “Hold onto me, baby… I’ll make it good for you…  _mmhhh_ …”

Talking dirty has always been a crucial part of sex for him, so he’s happy when Sherlock groans and runs his nails down his spine and whispers: “Keep talking to me…”

John obeys, and they establish a rhythm of in and out, John whispering into Sherlock’s ear that he’s so hot, so sexy, that he’ll make him come so hard, make him scream his name, that his cock tasted so good when he sucked it, that he wants to do that again soon.

It goes on forever, his own pleasure building slowly, and he’s glad he’s already come once today. He’ll last longer that way – as long as it will take to get Sherlock there as well. John has never been one to leave his partner hanging, but tonight it’s even more important to him. Sherlock is clinging onto him for dear life, his muscles tense, his breath loud and erratic. He  _sounds_  close, but John isn’t sure.

He’s seen it happen in porn movies, and he hopes against hope that despite being completely out of his depths when it comes to sex with a man he will be able to make Sherlock come without using his hands – he’d be so proud of that.

He’s been trying to drag his abdomen along the underside of Sherlock’s cock with every thrust, keeping the pressure steady, and he loves the way he can feel the two plump globes of Sherlock’s testicles pressing against his body, so full and soft and silky. This experience is more intimate than the kind of sex he’s known before, but he can’t explain why it feels like that – it’s probably to do with the  _who_  and not so much with the  _what_.

Sherlock is sobbing now, lost for words, and John wants to spend the rest of his life in bed with him to hear him make those noises, and to be the reason for them. He bites down on his clavicle and sucks, then lets go and licks the spot to soothe the pain. Sherlock whimpers and starts to shake all over.

It’s happening, John thinks, oh  _God_ , it’s happening.

“ _Sherlock_ …” he pants. “You’re getting close, aren’t you… Mmhhh, you’re  _so_  tight… It’s starting inside of you now, isn’t it…  _Ah_ , let go now, baby, let go for me…  _Come_  for me… I’ll let go, too… I’ll come inside of you… Hmmm… Sherlock… Oh God,  _yes_ \---”

" _John!_ "

Sherlock cries out and his body clamps down on John’s cock, rendering him unable to move for a second, and then the rhythmic contractions of his orgasm start and Sherlock’s come shoots out of him and into the space between them. It’s hot, so hot, causing their chests to slide against each other with slick sounds that are obscenely beautiful to John's ears. He thrusts deeply, feeling every wave pulsing through his friend, his  _lover_ , his beautiful,  _beautiful_  man, and before he knows it, he climaxes as well.

"Ohhh  _God!_ "

His thrusts lose their rhythm when he spills himself inside of Sherlock, and nothing has ever felt as good. He feels dizzy from the pleasure throbbing through his nerves.

When it ebbs away, he groans and pounds into Sherlock’s quivering body a few times more, enjoying the aftershocks, his release making the slide wet and easy, and then he stills and puts his forehead against Sherlock’s, gasping for air.

“ _Fuck_ ,” he sighs. “Sherlock.”

There are tears on Sherlock’s cheeks again, and he’s gone completely boneless, as if he’d fall apart if John took his arms away from around him. He’s breathing fast, moaning a little in between gulps of air, his voice entirely devoid of its usual dark timbre and sounding much younger.

“You do not… disappoint,” he suddenly pants. “That probably  _was_ … the best orgasm of my life…”

John laughs a little deliriously and looks up and into Sherlock’s eyes.

“Ditto,” he croaks and grins.

Sherlock pulls him down into a slow, languid kiss that makes John’s heart beat even faster than before.

“What was that?” he asks when they part again, and he didn’t even mean to say it out loud, but maybe it’s for the best. “What is this?”

Sherlock’s smile looks bittersweet.

“It was amazing sex. It is... whatever you want it to be,” he answers.

His fingers are rubbing the nape of John’s neck, and it’s a calming touch. John swallows and puts his palms around Sherlock’s face, the mattress dipping when his elbows dig into it to hold his weight. He knows what Sherlock means by that, and although he’s giving him a wild card, he knows that what he’s holding in his hands now is a treasure – so precious and so fragile. He’s determined not to break it.

“I’ll talk to Mary tomorrow,” he says, holding Sherlock’s inscrutable gaze. “I--- I wish we’d done this sooner, Sherlock. I wish---”

“ _John_ ,” Sherlock interrupts him. “Don’t… rush your decision. Sober up---”

Oh,  _no_. He mustn’t think like that for one second.

“No! Listen, Sherlock, I  _am_  sober, okay? I admit I don’t know what happened tonight or--- or what’ll happen tomorrow, but it didn’t happen because I was drunk and horny. Okay?”

Sherlock looks guilty now, but he nods.

“Okay,” he mumbles. “I’m sorry.”

John brushes his nose with his own and sighs.

“No need. _I'm_ sorry I brought it up. Let’s not talk about it all tonight. Not while I’m here with you like this. Please. Let’s enjoy this for a little while longer.”

Sherlock’s eyes soften at that and he runs his hands through John’s hair, pushing stray strands off his forehead.

They stay like that for a minute or two, looking at each other, but John knows they'll have to separate soon – it’ll be more comfortable to do so while he’s still at least half-hard, and his arms are beginning to cramp from carrying his weight for such a long time.

“I’ll pull out,” he tells Sherlock and carefully draws back, trying to be slow and gentle.

Sherlock winces when John’s tip slips out of him, and John kisses his sternum in apology, feeling his heartbeat against his lips.

“I’m sorry…”

Sherlock shakes his head.

“It’s alright. It’s worth a lot more discomfort than that.”

John slides off his body and lies down next to him, and Sherlock immediately moves closer to snuggle up against his side. John is surprised, but tries not to let it show. This facet of his friend’s personality is new to him. He wraps his arms around the taller man, and Sherlock puts his head on his shoulder. John plays with his tousled hair and looks at the ceiling, breathing in the scent of what they just did, and he knows that this is what he wants, what he’s wanted all along.

Lying here in the afterglow feels like home, like he is where he  _belongs_  now, and although it’s confusing and he feels terrible for cheating on the woman he thought he loved and wanted to marry, he’s sure that it’s the right thing to do. He wonders if Sherlock leaving was the thing that made him realise how much he needs him in his life, how much he means to him - how much  _more_  than he allowed himself to believe or admit.

They’ll have to talk about that tomorrow. Tonight, he just wants to be with him. He knows Sherlock thinks that them sleeping together might have been a one-time thing, and that he will give him an out if he wants one. And yes, he’s terrified of what the future might bring. Calling off a wedding is not something you just do. Being with Sherlock has always been a challenge, and adding new aspects to their relationship will not make it easier. But he wants to do it again. He wants everything Sherlock can give. He wants to _try_.

He doesn't feel drunk anymore, which is probably down to the amount of adrenaline and endorphins coursing through his system right now. He's tired, exhausted even, but his head is clear.

He tries not to think about Mary, but does so anyway. He asks himself if Sherlock feels bad about hurting her, too. He almost certainly does.

By now their breathing has evened out again, and Sherlock’s body has grown heavy in his arms. He’s dozing, it seems.

“Do you want to get cleaned up a bit?” he asks him lowly. “Before you fall asleep there?”

Sherlock huffs and mutters something unintelligible under his breath, rubbing his slightly raspy cheek against his skin, and John knows that no one’s going to go anywhere right now, not even to the bathroom to get a flannel and some warm water. They’ll be sticking together _everywhere_ tomorrow morning. But who could care about that with an armful of half-asleep, thoroughly debauched Sherlock pressed against his body? It’s too sweet.

He reaches out with one arm to pull the duvet up and over their naked forms to keep Sherlock warm. Then he pulls him closer again and shuts his eyes.

“Okay,” he whispers. “We’ll just stay like this, then. I love holding you.”

He almost says  _I love you_ instead.

But that will have to wait.


End file.
